


the most dangerous thing

by bareunloveliness



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Achilles Come Down, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse, Alcoholism, Angst, Anxiety, Betaed, Binge Drinking, Blood, Cocaine, Depression, Drug Abuse, Homophobia, Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Masturbation, M/M, Past/Implied Cutting, Past/Implied Rape, Past/Implied Self Harm, Poverty, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, Skipping Medication, Songfic, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Vomit, Weed, intrustive thoughts, kicked out, past/implied abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 17,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27987813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bareunloveliness/pseuds/bareunloveliness
Summary: Grantaire didn't remember how his feet brought him up to the roof, but they had done so swiftlyand by means of stumbling. He wanted to black out and didn't want to remember this tomorrow. No, he did not think there would be a tomorrow. He hoped so much, at least. A bottle of vodka was heldly loosely by its neck in his hand.He wondered when the last time he took his medication was.He didn't remember.He heard Bossuet on the pavement below him, calling up, trying to save him.He took a drink.He did not want to be saved.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Grantaire/Montparnasse (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Comments: 59
Kudos: 91





	1. some of us love you

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for clicking on this fic! i poured a lot of myself into it and it means so much that you're reading it. please heed the trigger tags; this is not a light fic.  
> bold is lyrics, italics is grantaire's thoughts.

**Achilles, Achilles, Achilles come down,**

**Won't you get up off, get up off the roof?**

**You're scaring us, and all of us, some of us love you**

**Achilles, it's not much but there's proof**

Grantaire wrapped his lips around the edge of his bottle, which may have been poetic if he wasn't planning on killing himself.

He would stop in and say goodbye quickly, leave when Enjolras started speaking (if he could carry his feet away from the sound of an angel) and promptly step off the roof of the Cafe Musain. He rationalized that it didn't have to be prompt. He could take as much time up there as he wanted, letting the foggy freedom of vodka cloud his memory and cover all the memories he wanted to forget. It would take a few drinks for him to stop feeling unwanted hands traced distantly over his skin, but it would happen, and then he would be at peace. 

It had been a month since he had stepped foot in any part of the cafe; but he spent the first half of the evening sitting in the back room, nursing his drink with the care of a soldier. It was a  _ selfish _ desire of his to see the faces of his friends one last time. They were so pleased to see him after a month of his absence. Even Enjolras seemed to smile, which only made the pit in Grantaire's stomach sink. He told himself that  _ Enjolras wanted him dead _ . This was untrue, but only one man could have convinced him of this, and Grantaire wasn't convinced he was more a man than he was a god.

"We're so happy to have you back!" Courfeyrac had said, clapping a hand on Grantaire's shoulder; an action that no healthy man would have winced at, but nobody said Grantaire was healthy. Whether or not Courfeyrac took notice of Grantaire's uncomfort was unclear, but the latter man gave a weak smile and took his usual seat beside Joly and Bossuet.

"I started to get worried," Bossuet confessed, cheerful as ever, though a genuine panic lived just under the cover of his words. "Everytime I went over to see you, you were out."

No, that wasn't Bossuet's unluckiness, but rather Grantaire's desire to isolate himself. He did not correct his friend on this point and just nodded. 

Enjolras started the meeting without so much as another glance to Grantaire, who had a choice to make. The choice was not whether or not he would be jumping off the roof, as he was already firm in that decision, but what constituted as a goodbye. Ideally, he would ignite the fire in the benevolent leader one last time. Get yelled at. Not respond. The way it was supposed to be between a skeptic and a believer.

But he knew he couldn't sneak away, unnoticed, if he drew attention to himself. He would have to be satisfied with the small smile bestowed upon entry. It was during a particularly rousing speech, a perfect cover, when Grantaire quietly excused himself to the restroom. 

Unfortunately, the restroom was in the opposite direction to the stairs.

The back room of the tavern had a hallway that led to the front of house, where the stairs to the rooftop were, and the other side of the hallway to the bathrooms. It was a subtle catch, but Bossuet noticed it, unable to take his eyes off of his horribly silent  _ bitter _ friend. It was unlike Grantaire to hold his tongue for so long.

"I'll be right back," Bossuet said to Joly, unable to peel his eyes from the door. A door they were lucky to walk through, lucky to have access to. Bossuet never felt so unlucky in his life as when he kissed Joly's hand and grabbed his jacket, fleeing the room. He did not want to draw attention to his absence as much as Grantaire did, knowing that if too many people were involved (or just one god), Grantaire would panic and it would all be over. 

The Cafe Musain, a beloved meeting place, served both coffee and alcohol, but the trust of the staff is what allowed for this society of friends to call it their home. The two sisters that ran the establishment, Louison and Musichetta, had come to an agreement with Enjolras that he could have a set of keys and use them as he needed, given that he pay a small fee quarterly. He was easily able to do so, though out of pride, the money came from fundraising efforts as a whole of the group and not from the wallets of Enjolras' parents, who he refused to contact unless the matter was urgent.

The staircase in the back allowed for people to migrate to the roof, where they had seating in the warmer months, but nobody would want to shiver in the November air while they drank and dined. The appeal was in the fireplaces roaring.

It was a thin spiral staircase that made Grantaire's nausea rise in his stomach, but it was the way up to freedom. He locked the door behind himself and made his way up until the wind bit at his nose and it felt an odd sense of relief. For the first time in his life, the future was in his hands.

Bossuet was a moment too late, the door handle refusing to budge. This only confirmed his worst suspicions- a man filled with despair had locked his friends out from a high height. There was only one conclusion to draw, as Bossuet pulled his hat from his coat pocket and braved the snow outside, the sidewalk still twenty feet away from Grantaire. It wasn't the most dangerous of heights, but it could get the job done.

Bossuet swallowed, watching a blurry vision of green and brown stumble around the icy roof. Tears threatened to spill, but he wouldn't let them. He had to be the strong one.

"Grantaire? Come down."

Grantaire didn't remember how his feet brought him up to the roof, but they had done so swiftly 

and by means of stumbling. He wanted to black out and didn't want to remember this tomorrow. No, he did not think there would be a tomorrow. He hoped so much, at least. A bottle of vodka was heldly loosely by its neck in his hand. 

He wondered when the last time he took his medication was.

He didn't remember.

He heard Bossuet on the pavement below him, calling up, trying to save him.

He took a drink.

He did not want to be saved.


	2. redemption lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories start to play in Grantaire's mind as he sits on the roof, with Bossuet urgently reaching out for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have so many amazing betas so thank you to the 'hoes for enjolras' discord server and my wonderful girlfriend emma for making this better than before!!! we get into some of the dark shit of grantaire's past, so take it with a grain of salt.

**You crazy assed cosmonaut**

**Remember your virtue**

**Redemption lies plainly in truth**

**Just humour us**

**Achilles, Achilles come down**

**Won't you get up off, get up off the roof**

**Achilles, Achilles, Achilles come down,**

**Won't you get up off, get up off the roof?**

Grantaire found a spot to sit in the middle of the roof, a safe distance from the edge. But he could get there. He would get there.  _ He had to get there. _ It was cold on the concrete, but the vodka filled him with a warmth he could otherwise never experience.

"'Aire, I know you can hear me," Bossuet called, rapidly pulling up contacts in his phone. He couldn't do this without help, but he could not risk going inside and leaving Grantaire alone. "Please, go back downstairs into the cafe. You have friends in there who love you."

_ No, they liked when Grantaire made jokes or helped them find the cheapest bars. They did not love Grantaire. If they did, it was because they didn't know him. Or he had tricked them. Yes, he had tricked Joly and Bossuet into thinking he was lovable. He was full of hate, consumed by it, and if they knew, they would hate him too. How deplorable it was of him to manipulate his friends into thinking he was a good person.  _

He took another drink.

"I know that doesn't sound like enough right now, but I don't know what I'm supposed to say here," Bossuet's voice cracked. He was as honest as he was unprepared; how does one prepare for their friend to choose death? It was a long time coming. Grantaire hadn't been to a meeting for a month. And when he did show up, finally, he didn't say a word to anyone. 

The drunk just wanted to see them one last time. _ It was selfish. He was selfish. And now he was going to make everyone in that room feel guilty. He was so stupid. He shouldn't have come that night. Because now they would try to save him and feel bad when they didn't. He was selfish and he wanted attention.  _

Bossuet and Joly knew he had a hard life— they knew his parents kicked him out right after he finished high school, and before that, the family barely ate a whole meal every day. Some students were lucky enough to have full scholarships to university that included meal plans and housing. Grantaire's grades were less than satisfactory and only his tuition was covered.

He turned to bad people and worse lovers, beaten and bruised with a pocket full of cash, when he met the 'ABC Society' halfway through his sophomore year. Courfeyrac offered him a place to live two weeks later. It didn't take long for him to realize that Grantaire had no permanent home and was relying on Montparnasse and his friends to grant him hospitality. The moment when Montparnasse not-so-subtly pulled Grantaire out of a meeting by the front of his shirt was the breaking point for Coufeyrac, who saw through Grantaire's attempt at hiding his unfortunate,  _ deserved _ truth. Courfeyrac followed them outside, where he found Grantaire on his knees in an alleyway. After he broke Montparnasse's nose, he invited Grantaire to stay with him, no questions asked. 

_ Pity. He felt pity for the caught pervert on the ground and knew he'd feel bad if Grantaire died, so he let him sleep on the couch. Courfeyrac didn't tell anyone because he was embarrassed of letting such a rotten creature into his home. He wouldn't want anyone to think that he had any connection to Grantaire. _

That was a year ago, and by the spring, Grantaire had saved up enough for a place of his own, a few blocks from the cafe. He hadn't opened his door to anyone in a month. But he went for one final drink. And now guilt bubbled in his stomach.  _ Of course Bossuet had to get involved. Because Grantaire deserved to feel every more guilty than before. _

If they even thought about telling Enjolras—the very idea made Grantaire throw up on the rooftop in a small puddle next to his bottle. He wiped it off his mouth and took another drink.  _ Enjolras would only want to push him off the roof himself. It'd be an honor. It would be a justice that he would accept the need to perform. Maybe Grantaire would even get to see that smile. _

Every word that Montparnasse ever said to him hung in his head, and he believed them. " _ You don't know what love is. Nobody will ever love you. You're stupid for thinking you're worth anyone's time. I pity you. You're pathetic for loving anyone, and you're disgusting for loving Enjolras. You don't know what love is." _

He wasn't even listening to anything Bossuet was saying. The bald man was feverishly texting Joly, knowing he couldn't go inside to fetch his boyfriend himself. The moment he looked away or went back to the cafe, Grantaire would get a running start. Joly still wasn't replying, but Grantaire still wasn't jumping, so not all hope was lost, even if it felt like it was.

The alcohol burned his throat, but his thoughts burned his mind. He wondered if he'd get a funeral. _Who would care enough to pay for that or even attend?_ _If he did, it was only because he made his friends feel so guilty. He shouldn't have come back to the cafe that night. Selfish. Asshole. Selfish. Prick. Fuck._

He wanted to scream, wanted to talk to someone, _but_ _nobody cared enough to talk to him. Bossuet claimed to, but he was lying. Nobody would like him if they knew the things he had done- only Courfeyrac knew the tip of the iceberg. He must have forgotten about that night. He must have moved on. He must have been drunk too. He must have been -_

The door to the cafe swung open. Joly had arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for my friends who know how much i love and project onto grantaire, i promise i'm alright, the way i project and write him are Very Different and i don't know how to write characters without tragic backstories. i also literally have a timeline written out for this fic so i don't fuck up.  
> thanks for reading and again, comments clear my skin and water my crops.


	3. suffer alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joly arrives on the scene; Grantaire reflects when his life got bad again and his last attempt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot stress this enough that this fic is super triggering to some and to take care of yourself! i tagged it the best i could. a lot of this chapter focuses on a previous suicide attempt so. pls take care of yourself.  
> thanks to emma and malin again for betaing!!!

**Loathe the way they light candles in Rome**

**But love the sweet air of the votives**

**Hurt and grieve but don't suffer alone**

**Engage with the pain as a motive**

Joly had a habit of arriving right when his friends needed him to. He was wondering where Bossuet had gone, and when he checked his phone, he had rushed out the door like some mad phantom. His heart pounded in his chest to the same rhythm that it did the last time Grantaire had attempted.

It was halfway through his sophomore year, before Grantaire had met the society of saviors. That time, Grantaire didn't jump or fall or swallow or hang or shoot, but he did drink. Heavily. And he did not plan on surviving. It was calculated, yet subtle.

Unfortunately and fortunately, Grantaire made a very drunk phone call to Joly. 

"I just- fuck," he said, more relaxed than he had ever been in his life. He mumbled something that Joly couldn't pick up and Grantaire couldn't remember. 

Joly sniffed. " ‘Aire? Are you alright?"

And when Grantaire didn't respond, for he had fallen asleep, Joly was at his apartment within ten minutes. He understood, on some level, that Grantaire knew his limits and if he was pushing them, it was intentional. The door was unlocked— Grantaire hardly remembered to lock it when he came home in the early hours of the morning. God knows where he was coming home from— a different bar every night, a different adventure to try to numb the pain, and a different failure to stop himself from feeling anything but pity.

Joly found him in his room, almost choking on his own vomit, and took him to the hospital. There was clearly more than just alcohol in his system, and he smelled of sweat and sex, but Joly sat beside him with a caring hand on his. He didn't tell Musichetta, an act that was a symbol of utmost devotion to Grantaire. He swore that he didn't tell anyone at all. 

Joly's eyes looked to the bruises along Grantaire's neck as he lay asleep in his hospital bed, vitals all returning to normal. He had known Grantaire long enough to know that there was a very real possibility he had asked for the bruises, but something didn't sit right in his heart. 

When Grantaire woke up, he was surprised. He didn't remember how he got there, and Joly tread lightly in relaying the story. "You drunk-dialed me. I arrived. You're alive. That's all we need to say right now."

Grantaire accepted this, with a relieved anger. He couldn’t explain it if he tried.

A week later, as he brought his friend to a bar that he had shockingly never been to before, Joly said, "I must introduce you to the revolution." And the rest was nearly history. 

To say that  _ it  _ hadn't been bad for a while would be unfair;  _ it  _ was always in his brain, like poison

seeping into the earth below a plant that struggled to survive.  _ It _ told him to jump. Did the poison just become stronger one day, or was it growing in strength as it drained Grantaire?  _ It  _ slowly broke him down, and he was reaching what felt like,  _ what he wanted to be _ , the end.

Or maybe the poison just took a different form, strutting into his apartment like he owned the place, or rather, owned whatever was inside. Montparnasse, after almost six months, had found Grantaire again. It wasn't hard, necessarily, as he still attended the same school, but to find his home, his sanctuary, that was another matter entirely. Seeing Montparnasse again made him crumble like an Ancient Greek faced with the light of today.

Grantaire, half drunk after coming home from a particularly heated meeting, had opened the door, expecting Joly or Bossuet or maybe even Jehan, but instead his heart fell out of his chest as his mouth went dry.

"You don't have anything to say to me? After you fucking abandoned me?" Montpartnasse shoved past him, entering without so much as asking. If he hadn’t beenintoxicated, Grantaire would have thrown a punch right then and there, but he didn't feel like he had the power to do so.

From that moment on, his life fell apart.

Montparnasse shared his bed often after that night when he fought his way into Grantaire's apartment. Now that he knew where Grantaire lived, there was nowhere for him to escape to. This revived the gilded phase of glamour in Grantaire's life—bright and shiny clubs with people who appeared to adore him. _They didn't. They liked what he could provide them. There was nothing uniquely special that made them desire him, but that he was another body that wouldn't say no._ _To say 'no' was to give himself value, which he did not deserve._

His father tried to call him, asking if he had found a girl yet. Grantaire laughed, a bitter, mirthless cackle, and hung up. There was an angry part of him that knew if he did 'end up' with a girl, his parents would welcome him back into their lives with open arms. It wouldn't change the fact he was bisexual, of course, but his parents could pretend he wasn't. The joke was on them, Grantaire realized. He wasn't going to 'end up' with anyone. He was going to end up a statistic.

All of this to say, Grantaire had more reasons to die than reasons to live and he wasn't counting either of them. He didn't care enough. It wasn't as if he didn't have anything to offer the world, but that his very existence made the world a worse place.

_ And wasn’t that what everyone had been telling him for years? Enjolras said he was good for nothing, a cynic, and a skeptic who would never be happy. Didn't that mean Enjolras wanted him to jump? If a god wants you dead, you might as well die. So that was the plan. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter four should be up soon, i just have some last minute edits. maybe even tomorrow we'll see.


	4. our youth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joly's perspective of Grantaire's previous attempt and the decision to introduce him to Les Amis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *screams* okay i have 27.5 hours until my finals are all done. so here's this, edited for your viewing pleasure.

**The self is not so weightless**

**Nor whole and unbroken**

**Remember the pact of our youth**

Joly had a morbid youthfulness that made him so deeply lovable that Grantaire hated himself for denying him his request: for Grantaire to live another day. Joly had a better grasp on words in a situation like this, compared to Bossuet, because he had learned them previously. 

"Grantaire, my friend," he called up, voice carrying on the frozen wind, "I would love to see you in the cafe— I want to talk to you. I want to talk about how you're feeling. I want to be there for you."

Grantaire shook his head and swallowed. What he was feeling was nothing. It was numbness. And, in a sense, there was relief. He had made his choice. He just had to decide when. _ He could jump now. He could drink for another hour. He could do whatever he wanted. Because he was going to die that night. It was something that was finally in his control. _

"Remember when we were kids?" Joly asked. Yes, Grantaire remembered. They entered high school together, and Joly was the only one who would talk to him. They were an odd pair to look at, but all they wanted was to be loved. When they started university, Joly had found Musichetta. Grantaire found Montparnasse. They appeared to have grown apart, but the truth was that Montparnasse pulled them apart. It was much easier to manipulate a lone man than one who believed he was worthy of being loved. By the time that Grantaire fatefully drunk-dialed Joly, they couldn't remember how long it had been since they properly saw each other.

Joly was reading a dissertation on a recent autopsy (a failed bypass) when the call rang through. He almost didn't answer, confused as to why his high school best friend would call him at three in the morning. The pair had been inseparable for years  _ because Joly had no other choices of friends _ , but times had changed. Joly had new friends. Grantaire had nobody.

"I just- fuck-"

" ‘Aire? Are you alright?"

And then, silence.

"I got there in time to get him to the hospital," Joly told Combeferre a few days later over a cup of coffee. He was still shaking. He hadn't stopped. He didn't know how. "But, fuck, Ferre. I can help other people and I want to help other people but when it's my friends' lives at stake? I don't know if I can do that."

"But you did," Combeferre said, nodding solemnly, "you say you haven't really spoken to him since graduation? Does he have…" he wondered how to ask without being blunt, but figured that might just be the best way to ask in that moment, "any friends?"

"He has a boyfriend," Joly spoke slowly, taking a long sip of his latte, "I don't know of anyone else."

"Bring him to the meeting tomorrow."

And so he did.

"It's at a bar-café-mix sort of place," Joly told Grantaire as he drove his Jeep around the corner after picking his friend up, "The Café Musain."

"Shockingly enough, I've never been there." Grantaire commented, lighting a cigarette in Joly's car as he brought the windows down. It was barely a five minute drive. Joly hated when anyone smoked in his car, increasing his chances of cancer and cardiovascular diseases, but as long as Grantaire was in his car, he didn't mind.

" ‘Aire, it's like a block away from you."

"Don't shit where you eat."

When they arrived, Grantaire put his cigarette out under his foot right before they went in. He

was comfortable in large groups of people, usually thrived in them, but there was still the very real fear of embarrassing Joly. He wasn't incredibly political or idealistic, and wasn't sure how much he would agree with Joly's friends. He ordered a beer before Joly brought him to the back room.

The moment he stepped inside, he stopped breathing.

He was in the presence of an angel.

The angel was quietly nodding to something that another man (Grantaire would learn later that he, with kind eyes and carefully styled dreadlocks, was named Courfeyrac) was saying. He had golden hair pulled back into a high bun, and you could trace a line from it to his cheekbones. His cheeks were as rosy as his lips, which sat curled as he listened intently. It wasn't just the beauty, but the belief in a better world that convinced Grantaire that maybe it was a good thing that he hadn’t died in the last week.

He went home late to Montparnasse after the meeting. And paid the price. _And deserved it._ _And loved it._

"You were, and will always be, the most important person to me," Joly was calling up to the roof, snowflakes landing on his lashes as he looked up. 

_ Bullshit. Grantaire could name ten people that Joly liked more. Hell, Joly probably liked Montparnasse more. That was a man who knew what he wanted and pursued it instead of moping around and being a nuisance to everyone with the misfortune to be around him.  _

"I can't pretend I know what you're feeling, but I want to find out. We can talk for as long as you need."

_ He needed everyone to leave him alone. No, it didn't matter what he needed. It mattered what he could do for others. And right then, not much. Nothing. Just like what he was worth.  _ He felt nauseous again and wondered if his head against the sidewalk below would cure that ailment.  _ He couldn't have a headache without a head. _

While Joly was trying to talk him down, Bossuet was reaching out to another friend. He was growing more desperate by the moment, still convinced that they should not attempt to recruit Enjolras. Jehan was the next contact in his mental list, someone who had seen Grantaire during some of his worst moments and helped him live to see another day (even when he might not have wanted to).

"Grantaire? Can you hear me?" Joly continued.

_ He shouldn't encourage them. He should let them give up. _

In a moment  _ of weakness, _ Grantaire spoke. His voice was harsh, just loud enough to hear. The city was silent, and the roof was only two floors up. 

"Yes."

Joly almost cried, but limited himself to just a smile. "That's good, 'Aire, I'm really glad. I'm really glad to hear your voice."

_ Idiot. _

_ No, Joly's not an idiot. Grantaire is, and he's an asshole for thinking sweet Joly is. Did he even truly love his friends? Obviously their affections for him were either lies or manipulated truths. But Grantaire? He probably didn't care about them at all. _

_ Fuck. _

Grantaire stood up and let the cool wind hit his back. He took another drink.

Inside, Jehan was setting his drink down and excusing himself from conversation with the air of grace that the situation deserved. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jehan's next, babey!!!! but we're also going to see what's happening inside the cafe musain while grantaire is on top of it very soon so. lmk if you're hype as fuck for that.  
> thanks!


	5. worthy opponent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jehan gets involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay next chapter is literally coming in like. ten minutes. bare with me.

**Do not waste your self on this roof**

**Hear those bells ring deep in the soul**

**Chiming away for a moment**

**Feel your breath course frankly below**

**See life as a worthy opponent**

There was never any truly graceful way to suddenly leave a conversation, especially one that both participants cared so much about.

Jehan and Combeferre were researching—laptops and minds open—how best to amplify the voices of women (particularly those in contemporary social movies) without speaking over them. Both men felt that their beloved society was, on occasion, lacking in certain feminist endeavors on the grounds of having no women in the group. 

"Who did you have in mind?" Combeferre asked, as Jehan suggested that they raise funds to invite a female speaker on campus to discuss her story; a way to quite literally amplify a woman's voice. Combeferre was somewhat worried this would appear performative, considering, once again, there were no women in Les Amis D'ABC. 

"Uh, this website says we could get Alyssa Milano?" He shook his head, wanting to do this cause justice, and not sure if she was the best choice to do that. However, despite how invested he was in his work, his Macbook dinged and everything changed.

Bossuet Lesgles: hey so

Bossuet Lesgles: i wish i was better at this. fuck.

Jean Prouvaire: what's going on????

Bossuet Lesgles: r is on the roof

Jean Prouvaire: what????

Bossuet Lesgles: we can't get on the roof since it's locked but. sneak out. me and joly are trying to talk him through it and it's not working. we don't want to fuck it up more.

Bossuet Lesgles: don't be. obvious. we don't wanna see e freak the fuck out.

"Is everything okay?" Combeferre asked, brow furrowed in tender confusion.

Jehan swallowed. "Um, yeah, everything's fine. Milano just charges uh, forty grand for a speech, so… I'm going to step outside for a moment, I'll be right back." He closed his laptop and left it, escaping the Cafe Musain before Combeferre could say another word.

Outside, Joly was balancing his cane on what may have been a sheet of ice, looking up at Grantaire, a distant (but very real) figure on the roof. There were no railings. 

"How long has he been up there?" Jehan spoke quietly, as to not alarm Grantaire.

"Twenty minutes," Bossuet estimated, having been the first one outside. It was chilly enough for it to be uncomfortable, but it wasn't dangerous. At least, the danger didn't come from the weather, but from the cold thoughts stirring in Grantaire's brain like a blizzard.

Jehan nodded. "And has he said anything?"

"All he did was confirm he could hear us. He's drunk. Drunker than usual. He knows what he's doing," Joly explained, knowing he was about to relive one of his worst memories. But if it kept Grantaire alive, he was willing to go through it every day for the rest of his life. That was part of the risk ( _ the burden)  _ of being his friend, but he believed that it would get better one day. He always believed that.

Unfortunately, Grantaire believed his friends were talking about him in hushed tones. And they were, but what they were saying and what he suspected were two reverse sides of the same coin.

_ "He's still up there? Why won't he fucking jump yet?" Jehan must have said, joining them to see the bloodbath, "God, he's dramatic." _

_ "I know, we're telling him how much we love him and shit, but we all know it's not true. How could we love someone so fucked up?" Bossuet must have replied as if it was simply fact. _

_ Joly must have agreed, saying, "He used to cut in high school, and you could see the scars the next day. It was the most obvious cry for attention ever. But what was I supposed to do? Find another friend?" _

_ "He probably never stopped. He probably shouldn't." _

They were dark thoughts, sure, but such were the ideas that lived in his head.

"Grantaire," Jehan called to get his attention, pulling him out of his own sickening thoughts. "I wanted to tell you that I love you. You are so, so loved, and you add so much to my life every day. I love talking to you about Greek poetry and about love and how amazing art can be." 

_ Grantaire added so much pain to his life. Jehan could have replaced him with a library book. _

"You are the bravest and strongest person I know. You have seen so much and you love so deeply and I admire you for that. You will get past this. I know you will. Take the first step and come down the stairs. Grantaire, come down."

_ Take the first step into the street. _

It was harder to deny Jehan—his words were so carefully crafted that it was easy to believe that he meant every single one of them. _But it was also easy to believe that Grantaire was unworthy of love. Of fucking course he was unworthy of love. He could love or lust or whatever sick twisted fantasy he projected onto the people around him, but that would never mean he could earn genuine love from anyone else. Was there such a thing?_ _  
_ Jehan knew more than he led on, having had to bring Grantaire home on more than one occasion, even though the alcoholic lived on the same block as the Cafe Musain. Sometimes he was too drunk for any of his friends to be sure he would make it home alone safely. Sometimes Bossuet and Joly had already left. Sometimes Grantaire didn't plan on having any help or needing it. He swore he was fine on his own and didn't particularly like how Combeferre or Courfeyrac would look at Jehan and look back at him. He knew what those glances meant. _Go take care of the wine-cask. He needs a babysitter._

If Grantaire knew in advance that there would be someone in his apartment, he would clean. It would be either spotless, or just the right amount of messy that it wouldn't be questionable. But he never knew in advance with Jehan. So Jehan got to see a side of Grantaire and his apartment that not even Joly or Bossuet were familiar with.

Nights where Grantaire got especially fucked up were not random; there was always a reason. He was a very tall blonde man with a tendency not to know where the line was. And even if he did, Grantaire usually tried to push him past it. Jehan was never supposed to know about Grantaire's  _ fucked up _ feelings for Enjolras, but he did. And he held them close, afraid of how they might hurt Grantaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *screams* i wrote so much y'all


	6. rise above

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first two times Jehan took Grantaire home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is one of the sections that i know has self harm in it so please take care of yourselves.  
> ALSO huge thank you to my friend mia who helped me come up with the second time- the first draft of what i had written didn't work with the new ending im working on so that was really helpful!

**Achilles, Achilles come down**

**Won't you get up off, get up off the roof?**

**Today of all days**

**See how the most dangerous thing is to love**

**How you will heal and you'll rise above**

The first time Jehan took Grantaire home, towards the beginning of their junior year, Enjolras had been a figure of rage incarnate, wrath's brother, and a complete terror.

He had achieved all of this in a silent way that Grantaire hated.

"So you're not going to fucking say anything?" Grantaire spat, alcohol on his breath like a moth on a flame. "I tell you why you're a jackass for pretending like we all came from the same fucking earth? We're all human, sure, but we are not born into this world as equals. You were born in a fancy fucking hospital with a little blue hat and I was born in the back of a fucking cab that my mom couldn't pay for. And you're not going to fucking say anything."

"I'm not going to dignify another drunken rant with a response. I would be happy to continue this conversation when you're sober." Enjolras spoke calmly, but Grantaire could feel the heat radiating off of him. It was magnetic.

"Please, you've never been around me when I'm sober."

"When we met?"  
The first time Grantaire saw Enjolras, he was convinced he was in the presence of God himself. He only had a beer, which wasn't even enough to feel. He didn't expect Enjolras to remember it. What reason did a god have for remembering the lives of pathetic mortals he ran into? However, for a mortal, it was impossible to forget. It was one of the clearest memories Grantaire had, and he held onto it with a faith that he didn't understand.

"Our leader," Joly said, thinking nothing of the way that Grantaire forgot to breathe for a moment. "Enjolras!" He waved to the blonde, who straightened up and saw a new face, immediately approaching to welcome him. He hadn't been told much by Combeferre, only that Joly had a somewhat apolitical friend that would be attending a meeting. It had been quite some time since a new recruit actually stayed, and Enjolras was determined to make a good impression.

Grantaire, on the other hand, was just repeating the angel's name in his head and the way that it rolled off of Joly's tongue.  _ Enjolras. Enjolras. Enjolras. _ It sounded like a choir. And when Enjolras looked at him, almost beaming, with bright blue eyes, a euphoria almost settled in Grantaire's chest, only to be replaced by a wave of anxiety.

"Welcome to Les Amis D'ABC," Enjolras said, a reasonable amount enthusiastic without being overbearing. "Joly is one of our best; we would not be half the group we are today without him."

Grantaire never got sick of hearing Joly's praises—there was so much to be proud of. Plus, there was the small joy of hearing  _ Enjolras _ speak, which Grantaire didn't think he would ever get sick of. "You flatter me," Joly flushed, poking at Enjolras' leg with his cane playfully. "I'm just as helpful as any other man here. Let me introduce you to Bossuet, and you've met Musichetta, right-"

Grantaire was pulled away from the angel, who smiled with his hands in his pockets, hoping he made a good first impression. He did.

Grantaire kept his mouth shut the first meeting. The one after that, however, he started to slur his words and he revealed that he hadn't voted in four years, which was apparently a deadly sin in that room. "I'm from New York!" he explained. "My vote doesn't mean shit!"

So yes, when they met. That would be the only time.

Grantaire couldn't ask, not while he was boiling with rage, why Enjolras remembered that. "Fuck off," he said simply, retreating to a bottle that he was soon to drain. Joly and Bossuet left early (something about Musichetta not feeling well, which seemed true enough as only Lousion was working that night), leaving Grantaire to drown his sorrows alone.

Jehan volunteered the first time.

"Let's get you home," he said, helping Grantaire to his feet. The brunet obliged, leaning on the shorter man for support. It wasn't a horrible walk, just uncomfortable, but when the pair had reached Grantaire's room, Jehan felt his heart fall out of his chest.

There were droplets of blood on the carpet.

He didn't ask about it. Besides, asking an unconscious man questions was often futile, and Grantaire had fallen onto his bed and asleep within moments. Jehan took a moment to look at the blood once he made sure there was no chance his friend would choke on his own vomit. There was no knife or razor around, implying that whoever or whatever had caused the spill was no longer in the apartment, which terrified Jehan. There was no way to control an absent monster.

He tenderly kissed Grantaire's forehead and left with a chill down his spine.

The second time Jehan took Grantaire home, Enjolras hadn't spoken to him the entire meeting. It was obvious and intentional, and the blond was a force unable to be broken down.

"Fucking talk to me!" Grantaire was screaming, but it was as effective as if he was crying to a brick wall. 

It was a cruel joke, and he later said it was so 'Grantaire would finally be forced to hear his own voice for once and realize how often he used it', which felt like an excuse. Courfeyrac insisted he apologize.

That night, it was a shock that the drunk man could even get up the stairs to his apartment. 'Stumbling' would be an understatement, as the world seemed to stumble around him, spinning out of control. Jehan was already expecting that he would have to clean up puke that night. They got up the first flight, but as Grantaire struggled to climb the second, he lost his balance and tumbled backwards.

Jehan caught him, faithfully, arms outstretched to balance both of them. "I got you," he said, reaching out to hold Grantaire's arms steady under his hoodie. There was a moment of Grantaire's pale skin against Jehan's tawny skin when Jehan realized what the unfamiliar texture was. As Grantaire attempted to stop feeling so dizzy, trying to focus on the wall and make it stop moving, Jehan pushed his friend's sleeves up to see rows upon rows of messily spaced slashes.

The poet almost cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gimme a minute to post the next chapter lmao!!!  
> it's gonna take a lil bit to write the after that because they need a LOT of editing and rewrites so. enjoy three in a row.  
> as always thank you to my lovely gf emma and the 'hoes for enjolras' discord server.


	7. absent of cause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third time Jehan brings Grantaire home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is also one of the super triggering chapters with drug use/abuse, skipping meds, just all around not mentally good, and a little bit of. masturbation. so. enjoy. i guess. i'm sorry i'm really bad at writing notes.

**Achilles, Achilles, Achilles, jump now**

**You are absent of cause or excuse**

**So self-indulgent and self-referential**

**No audience could ever want you**

The third time Jehan took Grantaire home was the last time that Enjolras yelled at him. It was the last meeting Grantaire had attended, prior to his final goodbye. And Jehan saw more than he ever wanted. And he didn't think it could get worse. And he was so deeply wrong.

Nobody ever really taught Enjolras how to apologize.

He tried to be private about it, which was already unusual in itself, as the pair had never spoken privately since they met. Everything was dramatic and loud and on display. This was hushed, quiet, and discreet. Enjolras sat down at Grantaire's table, and Joly raised an eyebrow.  
"May I speak to Grantaire for a moment?" He spoke softly. Joly nodded, standing and crossing towards Bossuet, but was slightly skeptical. That was usually Grantaire's job.

"To what do I owe your godly presence?" Grantaire jabbed without hesitation. He was numb. Montparnasse had invaded his life once more, and he was running out of emotions. Enjolras noticed his tired eyes, the fight and anger drained from them.

"I'm not-" Enjolras took a breath. "I wanted to apologize."

Grantaire didn't think he had heard him correctly. "What?"

"Don't make me say it again," he said, more than a little ashamed. "Being passive-agressive… that was wrong. I shouldn't have just shut you out like that to make a point. Combeferre and Courfeyrac talked to me afterwards and-"

There it was.

"You had to be told to be sorry?" Grantaire didn't want to be defensive, he just wanted to accept Enjolras as he was, but his own mouth betrayed him. Besides, the god was untouchable. He could never be sorry if he tried.

"No, it's not like that," Enjolras searched for the right words. "I was proud, and-"

"Oh, that's fucking excellent, Enjolras." Grantaire spoke flatly, not even expending energy on sarcasm. "Wouldn't have expected that from you in a million fucking-"

"I'm trying to be a good person!" The blond shouted and the room went still.

"You're a god, stop trying." Grantaire snarled, standing up and excusing himself to the restroom. 

When he came back out, Enjolras was gone. In his absence, Jehan had been tasked with bringing him home. "Let's get out of here," the poet said.

But when the pair got back to the apartment, Grantaire snapped.

He was shaking, almost crying, and darting around the room. The brunet was flitting about the apartment, muttering to himself, and looking for something. He was manically sifting through papers, clothes, anything that was around. And anything Jehan said was as if he didn't hear. Jehan suspected there was something more in his system than just alcohol.

"I'm not fucking- I'm not-," Grantaire mumbled to himself, when he opened his spice cupboard. He found his antidepressants, and took one. He was about to take a second when Jehan stepped next to him and took the bottle, reading the label.

"Did you take this earlier? It says you're supposed to take it with breakfast."

"Didn't eat breakfast."

"So this is your first dose today?"

"Yes."

Jehan didn't know enough about medication to know if the time would deeply affect Grantaire, and half-wished Joly was there, but he knew enough to stop at one."Okay. Let's get you to bed." He rested a friendly and guiding hand on Grantaire's arm, trying to lead him slowly into his room, but Grantaire shook free.

"No, Jehan, I can't sleep. I'm not going to sit there tossing and turning. I want to go back out—I want to go to a bar. No, a club." He reached desperately for the right words as they tumbled uncontrollably from his wine-stained lips. It was at least three in the morning.

Jehan shook his head, and almost laughed at the smile that Grantaire wore. He missed seeing it, but it was different. It was electric in a way that felt unnatural. "Maybe next time. You, me, Bossuet, and Joly will go to a club next week. Even Musichetta will come if she's not working."

"No, you don't get it," Grantaire said, taking a step away. "I need- I need-" He tripped over his words, almost embarrassed, but too crazed to truly feel shame. "I can't sleep alone. I haven't—anyway, I need to find someone."

"I'll stay with you." Jehan didn't hesitate to offer; he wasn't planning on leaving anyway. He never saw Grantaire like this before and didn't trust him alone, even after he had fallen asleep. Not this time. Grantaire had a large enough bed to comfortably hold both of them—he had eventually outgrown the sad twin-sized mattress and vouched for a king. He may have been high at the time of the purchase.

Grantaire's eyes narrowed and he laughed blithely. "That's not what I meant."

"Okay, well, you're in no state for that anyway," Jehan chuckled with an air of discomfort, certain that Grantaire wouldn't be safe in any other environment right now. He was worried about the nights that he wasn't there to help; would Grantaire go back out after meetings, alone and high on God-Knows-What, just trying to find a warm body? Jehan swallowed. "Let's go."

"Out."

"No."

"I have to."

"No, you don't." Jehan was very firm on this point, but Grantaire looked frighteningly desperate, like he might rip apart at the seams. "A compromise," he offered, "You go take a shower and jerk off while I tidy your room and make sure you have clean clothes."

Grantaire agreed, still a little out of his mind in the many meanings of the phrase. He retreated to the bathroom, and Jehan wondered if he should have cleaned out the medicine cabinet first. Although, on second thought, if the strange spot his antidepressants were found in was any indication, there was likely no actual medicine in the cabinet. 

Jehan silently found clean pajamas and placed books back on shelves, trying to wrap his mind around Grantaire's state when he heard, through unluckily thin walls, Enjolras' name.

Jehan said nothing, but that was something he carried with him. It explained too much; which meetings he had to help Grantaire get home after, why he was so desperate to pick a fight when he didn't believe in their causes, and why he felt like he would constantly be hoping for something that would never happen.

And now, outside the cafe, Jehan spoke up. "I don't pretend to know what's going on in your life and in your head, Grantaire, but if you would allow me the honor, I would listen."

_ He'd hate what he'd hear. He'd hate Grantaire. He should. Maybe Grantaire should tell him. Make it easier to mourn. Turn himself into a villian in his own story. Wouldn't that be powerful? Wouldn't that be something he had control over? _

He was about to take another step when the door from the staircase swung open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter until we actually get enjolras on the roof because the next chapter is going to be enj's pov where he slowly realizes half the amis are fucking. leaving. so that chapter will end the same way this one does? hugo does this a lot in the book where he'll tell you a scene and then at the climax, stop and tell it from another pov (he literally does this with enjoltaire's death!!! with the guards ABOUT to shoot and then it's like "grantaire was asleep" and we see the scene happen again. i just think it's neat so i stole the idea lmao).  
> i've said too much.  
> also. if you. know the song. you know that shit gets a LOT worse before it gets better. the song gets a lot darker before it gets happier. but it gets happier. keep that in mind. achilles comes down.  
> please leave comments i'm begging /hj


	8. bold and beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras' POV of previous meetings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pain time pain time pain time. that sweet, sweet enj pov with like. a BIT of ferre i guess.  
> also shout out to mia for answering the question "what are courf and enj talking about" with the answer "the design of the seychelles flag"  
> (also italics this time are enj's thoughts)

**Today of all days**

**See, how the most dangerous thing is to love**

**How you will heal and you'll rise above**

**Crowned by an overture bold and beyond**

**Ah, it's more courageous to overcome**

Enjolras was deep in conversation with Courfeyrac, who was discussing his favorite flags around the world. It wasn't a topic that Enjolras particularly cared about (he did not share Courfeyrac's passion for the Seychelles flag), but he was trying to get better at listening to his friends, as that was clearly one of his biggest flaws. Ironically, this personal attention to Courfeyrac led him to be less than aware of Bossuet, Joly, and Jehan's absences. As for Grantaire's empty chair, it had been that way for a month. He almost forgot that it had been any different that night, but that didn't mean he wasn't thinking about it.

For a month, Enjolras had thought of nothing but his last conversation with Grantaire. The words rang in his head like a migraine; "You had to be told to be sorry?" Grantaire had snapped.

No, that's not what he meant. Panic half-filled his chest as he shook his head. "No, it's not like that. I was proud, and—" Grantaire cut him off before he was able to finish saying  _ "I don't want to hurt the people I care about. You are loud and abrasive and I value you." _

"Oh, that's fucking excellent, Enjolras. Wouldn't have expected that from you in a million fucking—"

"I'm trying to be a good person!" Enjolras had screamed, words hoarse in his throat. Courfeyrac and Combeferre had spoken to him; that was not untrue. They invited Enjolras out for a cup of coffee, but when he arrived at the Starbucks (not his choice, for the record), he realized that the mood was less than inviting.

"What's going on?" He asked, sitting down at their table without ordering.

Combeferre's mouth flattened into a line. He was not one to soften blows with sugar-coated bullshit. "You're an asshole."

"Okay, care to be more specific?" Enjolras drummed his fingers on the surface of the table, breathing in the rich smell of freshly brewed coffee. 

"Every single time you fuck with Grantaire, he gets plastered," Courfeyrac said, "and you do it on purpose. Which is the problem. You know what you're doing to him and you do it anyway."

"It's his choice to drink," Enjolras argued, a little more than upset that his friends would stage an intervention, and for what? For a man who showed up to every meeting without caring about them? And It wasn't that he hated Grantaire. He just wished that the artist would be the man he was capable of being.

Combeferre narrowed his eyes, holding back a rant on the subject of addiction as a disease. "Regardless, you constantly hurt someone on purpose. There is not a single philosopher that you revere, except maybe Machiavelli—”

"—I do  _ not _ revere Machiavelli—"

"—that would approve of that. Why do you do it?"

Enjolras licked his lips, realizing how chapped they had gotten in the dryness of October. When  _ it _ happened, when the anger rose from his lips like a kiss, when he couldn't speak without yelling, he lost control. And Grantaire lost control. Grantaire was addicted to alcohol, and, in a way, Enjolras was addicted to him. Nothing made him feel more alive than when he was fighting with the brunet. 

"I want him to be a better man," he said instead, not caring to admit to even his closest friends the half-sadistic joy he got from seeing Grantaire care about something, even if it was just to tear him down. To see fire in his eyes, to see passion; Enjolras could not get enough of it. "I like seeing him riled up. And last night, I wanted him to be forced to hear his own voice for once and realize how often he used it."

_ And Enjolras wanted to hear it in all its fire and passion that Grantaire swore he did not possess. _

Courfeyrac swallowed uncomfortably, having seen Grantaire at his worst (or rather, what Courfeyrac thought was his worst, unaware of what Joly and Jehan had seen). He remembered the way that Grantaire's vacant eyes had stared at the ground below Montparnasse's feet, as dead as a corpse's. "You need to apologize. You know how Grantaire feels about you."

"What the hell are you talking about?"  
Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchanged glances.

Combeferre started, "Grantaire has made his feelings for you very clear, Enj—"

"He's made it clear that he hates me and everything I believe in, yeah," Enjolras scoffed, "he mimics my desire for equality by calling me a god, just to get on my nerves."

"That's not why he does it," Courfeyrac shook his head.

Enjolras' eyes widened. 

Oh.

_ Oh. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> real talk. how does it change the apology knowing that enjolras did it only after finding out about grantaire's feelings? enjoy the pain. one more enj pov and then. ROOFTOP.


	9. no me without you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre and Courfeyrac tell Enjolras where Grantaire is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this might have been one of my favorite fucking chapters to write. as always, shout out and thanks to malin, emma, and the entire hoes for enjolras discord server.

**Where you go, I'm going**

**So jump and I'm jumping**

**Since there is no me without you**

**Soldier on, Achilles,**

**Achilles, come down**

**Won't you get up off, get up off the roof?**

Enjolras tried to apologize; it wasn't something he necessarily had experience with. He did not want a fellow man, no matter who they were, to genuinely feel less than. He hated that he didn't recognize the farce from the beginning. "I'm trying to be a good person!" he had shouted, earning attention from everyone else in the room.

"You're a god, stop trying," Grantaire spat, excusing himself to the restroom to do who knows what. 

"I don't want to be a fucking god," Enjolras had said quietly to himself, grabbing his jacket. For the first time in his life, he was the first person to leave the Cafe Musain.

And a month later, Grantaire sat in the Cafe Musain with a bottle and those dead, lifeless eyes that terrified Enjolras. Enjolras had smiled at him, trying to give him space. And he began the meeting's opening speech.

He noticed when Grantaire left. The moment the chair was empty, he was aware of it. What he couldn't have known, however, was where Grantaire went. The blond assumed he was going to a different bar, or maybe just taking a smoke break. He wondered if he was the cause for the drunkard's absence. Was one look at Enjolras enough to send him into such a fury that he had to remove himself from the situation? Was that how badly Grantaire hated Enjolras? 

He didn't, however, notice when Bossuet, Joly, and Jehan had left.

Combeferre did.

The philosopher left the table that he had previously shared with Jehan, and pulled a chair up to Courfeyrac and Enjolras' table. Papers were scattered over the surface, but nothing of importance compared to the words that were about to fall out of Combeferre's mouth.

"Something has happened."

Enjolras looked at him, and registered the shift in the guide's mood immediately, not understanding what the cause was. "What's wrong?" 

Combeferre hesitated, swallowing for a moment. He was still connecting some of the dots. He did not yet have a full picture of what was happening. "I think it's obvious that half of our friends have slipped away tonight."

Guilt drummed to the sound of Enjolras' heartbeat, as he looked around him. Four of his friends were gone. Was Grantaire a friend? He truly didn't know."Why?" he asked instead of the other burning questions, more concerned than he tried to let on. 

Combeferre looked stricken. He didn't entirely have an answer.

Both Combeferre and Courfeyrac knew more about Grantaire than they were willing to let on. Combeferre knew of Grantaire's first attempt and Courfeyrac knew of Grantaire's tragic past relationship—at least, he believed it to be in the past. Perhaps the triumvirate would have been better off talking to each other before this moment, as Grantaire had unknowingly given them each a piece of the puzzle that they failed to put together.

"I'm not sure," Combeferre said honestly. "I'm going to text Joly—if any of the four will tell me the truth, it's him."

Combeferre: What's going on?

Joly: nothing. we'll handle it.

It was too obvious to deny that there was genuinely nothing occurring outside, or wherever the men had disappeared to, so Joly did his best to shut down Combeferre's curiosity. Although, with Grantaire just a few feet from the edge, he did consider confessing the truth for a moment.

Combeferre: Where are you?

There was no point in lying; one step out the front door would show Combeferre exactly where all three men were, and what they were looking up at. Joly was fucked and he knew it.

Joly: outside.

Combeferre: Why?

There it was. Joly had two options.

Say nothing, or lie and have Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras run outside without any context or warning.

Or...

Or he could tell the truth.

He could confess everything, let Combeferre know what was happening, and give Enjolras the chance to process it inside, away from Grantaire, for just a moment. Maybe he wouldn't even come outside. 

Joly: grantaire is on the roof and plans to jump. jehan, bossuet, and i have been outside for a bit trying to talk him down. if i'm being honest, and at this point i have no reason to not be, it's not working.

"Enjolras, we have to tell you something, but you have to listen to the full story," Combeferre said, trying to stop his voice from wavered. He subtly allowed Courfeyrac to see the text message on his screen so he would understand what the pair must do. Courfeyrac inhaled sharply. "And you must withhold judgement."

"I don't understand, but okay." he said and nodded, accepting the request. 

Combeferre took a breath in. "There was a day, a while ago, when Joly told me that Grantaire had a dangerous case of alcohol poisoning."

A familiar distaste bubbled up inside Enjolras. It was a mix of pity and disdain; even though he had a stronger understanding of Grantaire's feelings for him, it was hard to ignore the history of borderline hatred. "He's an alcoholic, isn't that—"

"No, and also, that's judgemental," Courfeyrac interjected. "He knows what will get him drunk, which is the goal, and what will get him dead."

"Which isn't the goal." Enjolras repeated, trying to make sense of the situation. 

"For an alcoholic, no." Combeferre said, walking on eggshells. "For Grantaire, yes."

Enjolras blinked. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were the two who always kept an eye on Grantaire, making sure Jehan would bring him home when necessary. They were the ones who kept attendance and notes at meetings. They were the ones that Louison went to with concerns over Grantaire's tab. That wasn't to say Enjolras wasn't also somewhat aware of the fact that Grantaire wasn't doing well. On some level, in hindsight, it felt too clear. Enjolras didn't say anything. 

The silence spurned Courfeyrac to speak. "He was in a really bad relationship. With Montparnasse. I don't know the specifics, but I think he was—and you can't be judgemental—abused. Really badly."

Enjolras blinked again. In his defense, this was a lot of information to process at once (Combeferre was also slightly surprised at this news). "How do you know this?" he asked, voice soft and quiet as life buzzed around them.

"Joly told me," Combeferre repeated.

"Not that."

Courfeyrac wrapped a dreadlock around his finger, avoiding Enjolras' piercing gaze. It was important for Enjolras to know the truth before he went outside. It was up to Combeferre and Courfeyrac to make sure that when Enjolras went out, it would be what saved Grantaire, not killed him. "I saw them. I saw Grantaire—" 

For a man who spent the majority of his time repeating stories of sexual conquests, Courfeyrac struggled to find the words. He hadn't forgotten how fucking scared Grantaire looked, trapped on the snowy ground between Montparnasse's legs. "I saw Montparnasse forcing himself into Grantaire's mouth." He spoke quickly and plainly, as if he might throw up.

Color flooded Enjolras's face in a mix of embarrassment to hear a story he clearly wasn't meant to, and anger. He had been kind to Montparnasse when they had seen each other before. He thought the other man could have been an excellent revolutionary if he was only less violent. Enjolras felt deeply guilty about even seeing the smallest amount of goodness in such a vile monster. "And you didn't tell me?"

"He wouldn't have wanted us to," Combeferre sniffed.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. "So why are you telling me now? Where did they all go?" and then, the most painful question that he needed an answer to: "Where's Grantaire?"

Combeferre took a deep breath. The three men outside needed help. They needed Enjolras.

Grantaire needed Enjolras.

"On the roof."

The following events occurred rapidly in less than a minute, panic and fear surging Enjolras. He sprung out of his chair, and Courfeyrac pulled him back. "You have to be calm. You have to be kind. You have to be human. That is the only way you can save him now."

"I can do it," Enjolras said, struggling against his grip. "I have been nothing but harsh to him, so I have to go. I have to fix this."

Combeferre nodded, and Courfeyrac released his grip on Enjolras, who fled to the stairs, pulling on the door handle. "Locked," Combeferre said as if it wasn't obvious, "Grantaire knew we'd—"

Enjolras pulled a ring of keys from his pocket. "Grantaire didn't know that when I got the keys to the back room, I got all the keys," he muttered, unlocking the door and sprinting up the stairs, two at a time. He held his jacket around his arms as the bitter air bit his face. 

Only one thought ran through his head.

_ Enjolras needed Grantaire. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO. next chapter WILL FINALLY BE ENJOLRAS AND GRANTAIRE MEETING ON THE ROOF IN THE PRESENT TIMELINE. i don't think there are going to be any more flashbacks bc now we have a Very Firm Grasp on their emotions and perspectives. that said, the next chapters might take longer to be complete because i'm changing the ending from my first draft so there's a LOT to rework.   
> it's the way that they have to restrain enjolras from just going fucking apeshit. like. man does NOT realize it but he DEFINITELY feels something for grantaire.  
> anyway. comments feed me. thanks. please scream with me while i edit and rewrite the next chapters.


	10. your act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras speaks. Grantaire fucking listens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so like in the same way the song works. it's mildly sad for a while, gets worse, gets slightly better, gets a WHOLE lot worse, and then gets better.  
> we're at the 'gets slightly better'. so. enjoy this because a shitstorm is coming

**You crave the applause, yet hate the attention**

**Then miss it, your act is a ruse**

**It is empty, Achilles, so end it all now,**

**It's a pointless resistance for you**

The moment that the two locked eyes, the world seemed to freeze.

Grantaire saw his god, level with himself, and thought he must be dreaming. Had he jumped and forgotten? He wondered for a moment if he was already dead, faced with an angel.  _ He was so pathetic for imagining that Enjolras cared about him _ . The world stopped as Grantaire gazed, stunned by the understanding that he was not alone.

As for Enjolras, he saw Grantaire in the moonlight, eyes bloodshot and sunken with the weight of life. He was troubled and trembling, and Enjolras hated himself for never seeing it before. He saw the love, devotion, and veneration that he had been blind to all along.

"Grantaire?" Enjolras called, treading lightly.

"Holy shit, I'm drunk." The brunet muttered to himself, looking down at the bottle. When did it get half empty? His thoughts were flying faster than his mouth could speak, trying to process the man below him and the abyss three feet away.

_ Now he had done it. He got Enjolras worried. What a performance! It was time for him to take a bow before the guilt really settled in, and jump. He felt fake. Like Enjolras had ripped a mask off and seen a scar he was never meant to. He had finally earned Enjolras's attention. What a way to die. _

"Yes, but I'm here." Enjolras took a careful step towards him, testing the waters, terrified that Grantaire would drown. "I wanted to talk to you."

"Everyone just wants to fucking talk to me," Grantaire sputtered, gesturing around him as the remaining vodka splashed inside the bottle. "There's nothing to say."

Enjolras could hear nothing but his own heartbeat and Grantaire's voice. For the first time in his life he never wanted Grantaire to stop talking. He wanted to hear that voice forever, at every meeting, at every speech, and every day of the rest of his life. "I don't think that's true," he said quietly. He had less of an idea than Bossuet on how to handle the situation at hand, but he did have an understanding that his words might be the most important. While it was ultimately Grantaire's decision, Enjolras understood that, on some level, it was all on him.

"I have nothing to say to you," Grantaire mumbled to himself, feeling his face grow hot, but with anger or shame, he couldn't tell. "Oh, mighty Apollo."

Enjolras bit back snark. No. He wouldn't take the bait. Grantaire wanted to see him angry one last time. And maybe, just fucking maybe, if he didn't get that satisfaction, he would live another day. Instead, Enjolras chose to speak the artist's language.

"You flatter me, Patroclus."

Grantaire raised his eyebrows at this, mind reeling. He had never heard Enjolras make any reference to the classics or Greek mythology or even Shakespeare before; not unless he was denying his godlike beauty or whatever title Grantaire had given him.

Grantaire laughed.

It was beautiful, it was a sound of life, and it was genuine and full. It was not hateful or wolfish, and Enjolras almost allowed himself the privilege of smiling. Bossuet, Jehan, and Joly (who were soon joined by Combeferre and Courfeyrac, as one might expect) almost wept on the ground below at the musical sound.

"Why Patroclus?" Grantaire asked, wondering what Enjolras knew of the myths and stories.

Enjolras hesitated, "I- I don't know. It's stupid." 

"I know it's stupid, that's why I'm asking," Grantaire seemed almost playful, which, considering the situation, terrified Enjolras. How could he be so calm? Was that better than the alternative? Regardless, he was thrilled to keep Grantaire talking.

"You called me Achilles, once."

"Did I?"

"First week of classes this year," Enjolras said, wondering how long he could draw the story out.

Grantaire felt a pang of guilt. "I was drunk. Or high. Or both." Montparnasse had returned to his doorstep at the beginning of August and he had very few memories from that time. He didn't want them. He did whatever he could to make sure they were fuzzy and blurry and if Jehan had asked him, he wouldn't know where the blood had come from. "What did I say?"

"You said my idealism was my Achilles' heel," Enjolras explained. "We were signing up for the club fair and I estimated that twenty people would sign up, off of the poster you designed alone. It was this beautiful, frantic mixed media piece; I think that's what you called it. There were fans that Feuilly made and Courfeyrac's old testosterone needles and a ticket from Jehan's Jeep that he couldn't pay off."

Grantaire remembered the piece— or rather, he remembered the final product. After three days of collecting junk from his friends, he did a line from a small vial he had been holding onto, and painted and glued and everything had a purpose. It was an ode to his friends, but when their school and their shitty town had failed them. The fans were from Feuilly's Etsy shop that he had to open and constantly work at just to afford breakfast since most of his savings went towards tuition. The testosterone needles for the slurs that the university made Courfeyrac clean off of his own dorm room door (which had promptly led to him moving off campus, where he was able to invite Grantaire in). The ticket from the night when Jehan was taking Bahorel to the hospital after a fight; the campus clinic closed at 8 P.M. but didn't let Bahorel in at 7:50 because he didn't have an appointment.

Prints of the piece were quickly turned into posters to advertise The Society of the Friends of the ABC. Grantaire's friends. Conversations were started over identifying the objects and people wanted to know why they were chosen.

Grantaire had missed this. He was intoxicated. It was a blur in the back of his memory that he didn't have the means to unlock.  _ It made him feel like shit. _

"It was a beautiful piece," Enjolras continued. "And I knew people would sign up. You laughed at me, and said it was my Achilles' heel, my idealism and belief. My belief in you." Sure, most people had given up after one meeting, but it was a success nonetheless.

"That's a turn of phrase, that doesn't mean I called you Achilles," Grantaire did his best to not dwell on the compliment hidden in Enjolras's words, but the way his eyes immediately fell to the ground betrayed him.

"No, but then you said that I was an Achilles in my own right, and I didn't know what that meant," Enjolras confessed. "I had to look it up. He was a hero, wasn't he?"

"You looked it up?"

"Yes, and then I fell into a little bit of a Wikipedia rabbit hole," Enjolras laughed for a moment, almost forgetting where he was. He had never spoken to Grantaire like this before. He was rambling, he was unsure, and he was  _ almost _ human. "That happens if I drink coffee past four in the afternoon. Which, I usually do. Achilles was a hero, but he wasn't able to forgive himself when Patroclus died. So yeah. If I'm Achilles, you're Patrocles. Because I couldn't forgive myself if you jumped off this roof."

Grantaire swore he stopped breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enj: you're the patroclus to my achilles  
> r: buddy do you know what the FUCK you're saying


	11. put down the bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras holds Grantaire and says the wrong things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they're holding each other this is your moment of happiness enjoy it while you can

**Achilles, Achilles Just put down the bottle**

**Don't listen to what you've consumed**

**It's chaos, confusion**

**And wholly unworthy**

**Of feeding and it's wholly untrue**

Grantaire did not respond, unsure if Enjolras understood the weight of his words. To compare them to those ancient Greek men was to compare them to lovers, and Grantaire had never felt loved by anyone, especially Enjolras. 

His silence terrified Enjolras, who held out his hand. Grantaire took a step towards him— a step away from the ledge. A spark of hope ran through Enjolras as he said, "Grantaire, please, listen to me."

The pair had never touched before: not a handshake, not a clap on the shoulder, not a hug. It felt sacreligious to even consider dirtying Enjolras's thin hands with his mortal touch, but there was nothing that Grantaire wanted more in that moment.

Grantaire took his hand, being drunker than he realized, and all but falling into Enjolras's arms. Enjolras lowered both of them to the concrete flooring, as he was not strong enough to support Grantaire's drunken weight. It was easier to hold him while they were sitting down anyway. Grantaire hated himself for resting his head on Enjolras's shoulder, but this did not stop him.  _ Enjolras was so sorry for Grantaire and pitied him like a wounded animal _ .

"Hey, will you give me the bottle?” Enjolras asked gently, with a softness that Grantaire had never heard before and couldn't help but accept. It was enchanting to hear his voice lower and be filled with such a gentleness. He didn't hesitate to hand Enjolras the bottle, the smallest gesture of trust. Enjolras proceeded to pour it on the ground behind them. He didn't care what a waste it was or how much the bottle had cost. It was not worth the price of Grantaire's life. "Thank you, Grantaire. Thank you so much."

_ Grantaire only handed him a bottle. Anyone could have done that. It was like cheering on a child who ate a Cheerio. Worthless, pathetic, and now he was crying into Enjolras's jacket. When did he start crying?  _ Grantaire took deep breaths, thin air barely filling his lungs. 

Enjolras, on any other occasion, may have smashed the bottle on the ground or shouted that Grantaire was too dependent on drink— and Grantaire would have slurred something about being dependent on Enjolras. 

This was not any other occasion. This was the breaking point for both men.

"I have been so cruel to you," Enjolras began. "and I was wholly wrong. I didn't apologize because Courfeyrac and Combeferre told me to. I apologized because they told me I hurt you. And I did not want to hurt you. I don't know what I'm supposed to say, but I'll just tell you the truth: you are worth so much, Grantaire— to me and to everyone we know. To the five men on the ground below who have been begging for your life."

Grantaire didn't remember when his silent crying had turned into convulsive sobs, but his numb, blue hands were gripping the folds of Enjolras jacket like a lifeline. And yet, he felt a heat swell through his soul like he never had before. He had never been so close to the sun, and he wondered if he wanted to be burned. It was intoxicating to Grantaire, to touch a god.  
"I am a better man because I know you," Enjolras said.

Grantaire bit his lip to stop from arguing that no,  _ Enjolras was no man. _ He couldn't get the words out, which was perhaps a blessing.

The blond continued, "I know you don't want to believe me— or rather, I know that you can't believe me. I don't know what your thoughts are telling you right now, but I know it's bad. Don't listen to them. Talk to me. Please," Enjolras almost begged, holding onto Grantaire tighter than he meant to. "talk to me."

_ Pity. Pathetic. Please. _ "You don't want to hear me," Grantaire said between gasps for air, hating himself more with every heaving breath.  _ If only he had jumped before Enjolras came onto the roof. _

"I do. I want to know what you're thinking. I want to hear your voice."

"You're- you're pitying me," Grantaire found himself saying; maybe it was the vodka and maybe it was the fact that Enjolras had— _ nobody _ had ever held him like this. "you just don't want me to die because you'd feel guilty, but you wouldn't be mad if I just turned up dead. Or if we never met. Your life would be the same. Your life would be better. You wouldn't be stuck on a roof holding a miserable excuse of a man—"

"Holding someone that I care a lot about." Enjolras corrected him gently. "I don't pity anyone on this earth." And he didn't say it, but there was a strange feeling, close to joy, in holding Grantaire like this, arms wrapped tightly around his side, with Grantaire's head on his chest. Two numb fingers found themselves in Grantaire's messy curls, just to remind him he was alive. Grantaire leaned into the simple act of connection, his breathing starting to slow down and steady out. Enjolras used his thumb to wipe tears off of Grantaire's cheeks, not wanting them to freeze. 

Grantaire looked up at him like he was the sun.

"I love you," he said, words slurred together. Those three words had never been spoken more truthfully by anyone in history. Grantaire meant them more than Patroclus, than Hadrian, than Icarus. He had never meant anything more deeply in his entire life. And he was glad to say them before he died.

_ He was going to die that night. _

No.  _ What if he was to survive? What if he was to be held like this again? _ Grantaire almost pushed away such positive thoughts from fear of the unknown, but they disappeared on their own when Enjolras didn't respond, but simply smiled.

"You know that, don't you?" Grantaire realized, lifting his head. Enjolras immediately missed the pressure of Grantaire's head against his chest, and felt like he had lost something important.

Enjolras nodded. "Yes, I know."

This was the wrong thing to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want to draw fanart of this chapter but i cannot draw  
> anyway y'all remember in chapter 5 when grantaire imagines a whole conversation between joly, boss, and jehan that didn't happen and it was sad? god i hope he doesn't imagine the conversation between combeferre, courf, and enjolras !!! :) :) /s  
> my friends call me the pain train so. yeah.


	12. no purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire imagines what the conversation between Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac may have been like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really like exploring Who Enjolras Is v Who Enjolras Thinks He Is v Who Grantaire Thinks He Is so. enjoy this.  
> i also like exploring Who Grantaire Is, Who Grantaire Thinks He Is, and Who Enjolras Thinks He Is so. pain.

**You may feel no purpose**

**Nor a point for existing**

**It's all just conjecture and gloom**

**And there may not be meaning**

**So find one and seize it**

"How long?" Grantaire choked out, pulling back and moving away. "How long have you known and didn't fucking tell me?"

"A month," Enjolras said, feeling his mouth go dry. "I found out right before—"

"Right before you apologized." Grantaire slid further away, not wanting Enjolras's touch on him anymore. It lingered on his skin like a bruise and _ he hated how it felt and he hated how it hurt and he hated that he almost liked it. _ "So that was just to protect my feelings then? Pity for the bitter mortal who fell for the god?"

Enjolras exhaled sharply, willing himself not to continue a fight. It wasn't the right moment. "Courfeyrac and Combeferre, they told me—"

"Oh, shit, fuck, God-fucking-dammit," Grantaire scrambled to his feet sloppily, struggling to remain balanced. "Fucking Courfeyrac? That's fucking— that's great, Enjolras, I'm so glad that you know about all of my bullshit."

"They asked me to get coffee and told me I was hurting you," Enjolras searched desperately for the right words to say, but none of them were finding their way to his lips. He was usually a better speaker—but it was one thing to convince someone to vote for a candidate and other thing to convince them not to kill themselves. He reached out his hand again, but Grantaire didn't take it.

The brunet could almost see the scene.

_ Dark coffee quietly dropped into paper cups while Enjolras sat, regal as a statue, demanding attention from his friends. "We have to talk to you," Combeferre might have said, voice cool and collected. "It's about Grantaire." _

_ "I fucking hate him, what's there to say?" Enjolras might have replied, contempt dripping from his tone as if discussing a vermin. "Is this about my trick? I wanted him to hear the grating sound of his own voice for once so he might just hear how annoying it is and how much it makes me want to shoot him and then myself." _

_ "You're cruel to him," Courfeyrac might have interjected, eyes wide and hands shaking. "And he loves it. He has a history of masochism, Enjolras, and if you're not careful, he might just fall in love with you." _

_ "What are you talking about? A history of masochism?" Enjolras would have asked, distant and judgemental. No god could understand such human, carnal urges. _

_ Courfeyrac may have stalled, taking a long sip of his drink. "Masochism and exhibitionism. He's a piece of shit without the decency of keeping private things private. He has no respect for himself, rightfully so, and I once saw him debase himself in the snow to earn the illusion of love. He blew Montparnasse right outside of the Cafe Musain. It was so disgusting and vile that I threw a punch right then and there." _

_ "At Grantaire?" Enjolras may have asked idealistically. _

_ "No, Montparnasse." _

_ "Damn." _

_ "Enjolras, you're being cruel again," Combeferre, ever the voice of reason, would have pointed out. _

_ "And? Grantaire has never given me a reason to be anything else. And he wants me that way." Enjolras countered. "Oh, he wants me." _

_ "Desperately," Courfeyrac agreed. "So if he tried to kill himself for any reason, you're the only hope to save the rest of us from that guilt, because he would do anything for you. Use his worship to your advantage. Keep him alive in his horrible life for your own pleasure and gain." _

Grantaire took a step away from Enjolras, unsure if he was seeing a god or a monster. 

Enjolras interrupted Grantaire's stream of thoughts with, "I wish you had told me."

"Sadist." Grantaire spat, reverting back to the man he so typically was. Yes, he was sharp-tongued with words like acid and he lived to get a rise out of Enjolras. This was how they always worked. They did not hold each other while they cried. They bit each others' heads off. One last fight, one finale, before Grantaire's final bow.

"No, because I could have helped," Enjolras chose to ignore Grantaire's cheap name-calling. He could not resort to anger; he could not be the vengeful god that Grantaire expected him to be—that Grantaire wanted him to be. "I have contacts with domestic violence centers. We could have gotten you a place to live and helped press charges or—or I could have just listened," Enjolras said breathlessly. "I understand why you see the world the way you do. It's been dark and unchanging and unforgiving. I would have never tried to push my self-absorbed righteousness and optimism on you if I had known. I have been wrong for so long."

Enjolras was admitting he was wrong. The deprecating voice inside Grantaire's head could not have expected that. It didn't know what to say. It was at a loss.

The blond kept talking, snowflakes falling in his hair. Even through the haze in Grantaire's mind, through the loathing and hatred coursing through his veins like blood, he still thought the other was beautiful.

"I missed you," Enjolras said. "This last month without you—the meetings haven't been worthwhile to me. They've been empty and sad and every single time, I wished you would be there. I kept hoping that your seat would be filled and I could see your face again. And I didn't understand it—I still don't understand it. But I missed you. You make me better. The world—my world—is better with you in it. I'm better when you’re with me. Fuck, none of this is coming out right."

Grantaire just stared at him, not sure how to take in any of this information. It was nothing like Enjolras's other speeches, and he could listen to Enjolras speak like this for hours. However, he struggled to process the idea that someone could care about him. "Why are you just saying this now? If you missed me, why didn't you fucking call? How am I supposed to believe you now?"

"Because I didn't know you needed to hear it!" Enjolras shouted, face still as stone. He was never taught how to tell someone he didn't love them back, but he could. He was capable of it. "I don't know what your world looks like. It's too dark for me to see clearly. I'm sure there's more to it than Montparnasse and myself and I want to walk through it with you."

"Orpheus," Grantaire mumbled under his breath, a name he had not called Enjolras before. "Turn around and kill me. I'll thank you for it."

"I thought you were doing okay," Enjolras confessed. "I thought you were gone for that month and bettering yourself. And maybe you were getting over me so I didn't want to ruin that. If being away from me would make you better, I had to let that happen, even though it hurt. I was wrong. And then you came back tonight, and I swore, my heart could have shattered."

"You don't have a heart, Apollo."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter should be out soon and also. uh. it's the low point of the entire fic but then it can't get worse than that so. yeah. im binging bridgerton rn so maybe my next fic will be regency au?


	13. dense motherfucker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras battles the voice in Grantaire's head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all aboard the motherfucking PAIN TRAIN

**You want the acclaim**

**The mother of mothers (it's not worth it, Achilles)**

**More poignant than fame or the taste of another (don't listen, Achilles)**

**But be real and just jump, you dense motherfucker (you're worth more, Achilles)**

**You will not be more than a rat in the gutter (so much more than a rat)**

**You want my opinion, my opinion you've got (no one asked your opinion)**

**You asked for my counsel, I gave you my thoughts (no one asked for your thoughts)**

**Be done with this now**

**And jump off the roof**

"I'm not a fucking god, Grantaire!" Enjolras shouted, aflame with anger. "Why do you keep saying that?"

"It's easier to call you a god than to admit that I'm not even lovable by a man," Grantaire choked out, not knowing how hard the words would be to say."I don't want to be alive, Enjolras. I want to fall asleep and never wake up. I don't want to walk into the Cafe Musain again and I don't want to see you again. There's no point. Every day is the same and every night I can't sleep, and I'm just so fucking pathetic and you have no idea. You can pretend like all is forgiven, but you hated me even before you knew how fucked up I was. You always knew that I was a piece of shit."

Hearing the words twisted back around on him made a knot tie in Enjolras chest, but he felt like it was some form of justice.. And there was nothing that he understood on a deeper level than justice, so he accepted it. "That's not true, it's just—I am not a good man. I want to be, but I am cruel. I want to be better. I want to treat you better." The moment wasn't about him, because he was not at the ledge (both metaphorically and physically speaking), but Enjolras knew he had to take responsibility for his part. "I'm so sorry, Grantaire, that I ever made you feel undeserving of love. Will you come back inside with me? Your friends care about you so much. I care about you so much."

Enjolras reached his hand out again.

"You're fucking lying," Grantaire said, tears still making tracks down his face. He turned away from the hand and took another step towards the edge. He was maybe five paces away. "There's nothing in the world for me anymore, Enjolras. I can't come back from where I am."  _ He was always going to be worthless, even if Montparnasse left, and now half of his friends knew it too. There was no way to escape their disdain and pity. _

_ There was one way. _

The voice in Grantaire's head rang louder when he took another step. Four.  _ Quick, fall before Enjolras interrupts again. Just a little more. That's all it will take. Freedom. Release. Just a few more steps. One after the other. Nothing is going to get better. Walk until there is nothing below your feet. _

"Grantaire, please." Enjolras couldn't find the right words to say. He had never done this before, never knew that his friends were hurting this badly before. "Just, keep talking to me. Tell me what you're thinking. I know there's some left hope in you. It's been an hour and you're still up here. You want to survive. I know you do."

"You don't know shit about me, Enjolras." He laughed darkly, daring to say his great god's name. "What do you think I'm thinking? I want to jump off the fucking roof. I'm thinking about how beautiful my brain will look splattered on the pavement. I'm wondering if any artist will be able to capture it. Oil paints would be a good idea." It was morbid, but so was a suicide attempt. "I hope—fuck, I hope it doesn't get on Jehan. He might puke."

"Because he cares about you," Enjolras said, taking a step towards Grantaire, who took another step towards the ledge. Three. "Because he doesn't want to see you like that."

Grantaire looked longingly at the street below, but not at his friends. At the release of death. Joly, Jehan, Bossuet, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac held each other, hands and shoulders, praying to any god who might listen. They looked up at Grantaire, who was close enough to see, and wept. They did not know what to say. Bahorel and Feuilly would likely join them soon. A full house for Grantaire's last curtain call.

"Look at the people down there. They love you."

_ He was lying. Grantaire was impossible to love. If he deserved love, was good enough for it, how come nobody stayed? How come nobody let him stay? His parents had kicked him out, everyone he ever shared his bed with was gone the next morning, and even the people he had committed relationships with hated him and knew he was worthless. Nobody could ever love him. Enjolras was lying. He was manipulative and godly and sadistic and he was lying. He wanted Grantaire to jump. He wanted to watch his skull shatter on the asphalt. He just needed to jump. Follow through. Don't be a pussy, don't be weak. Do what you've been threatening your friends with for an hour. They'll be disappointed if you don't. They've been waiting. Do a backflip. _

Grantaire took a step forward. Two.

_ If Grantaire didn't act on this impulse, all of his friends would give him all the attention he wanted. Nobody would leave him alone. They'd make sure he went home with someone every night, but not in the carefree way he was used to. He would be a burden every night, like when Jehan had to take care of him. It was enough to drive him crazy. Living was no longer an option. _

_ God, what a piece of shit Grantaire was. To make all of his friends worried for nothing. He had already wasted an hour of their time; he had given them too much hope. They thought they could still save him when he was too far gone. He should have jumped in the first ten minutes. Let them find his body when they had left for the night. Now it was too late to die and too late to live. _

_ He owed it to them to jump. _

He looked down at his dirty sneakers, willing them forward. They complied. One.

_ Grantaire should jump. Be done with it all. Get off this roof. He was sick of this fucking roof. _

Enjolras broke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can promise two things: it does not get any worse and grantaire does not jump. i cannot promise LITERALLY anything else from this fic but. uh. let's hope i write chapter fourteen soon, yes?


	14. achilles come down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras breaking might put Grantaire back together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i know i promise it's not sad anymore but i put like a lil sprinkle of sadness in a flashback here but like. i think y'all are gonna be satisfied with this.

**_XIV. achilles come down_ **

**_Can you hear me Achilles?_ **

**_I'm talking to you, I'm talking to you_ **

**_I'm talking to you, I'm talking to you_ **

**_Achilles come down, Achilles come down_ **

Enjolras wept.

Sorrow consumed his body, his heart, his lungs; tears ruined his stoic face. It was not beautiful. A statue crumbling was horrible. However, Enjolras would do so for Grantaire and so he did. "Grantaire," he said, voice shot and shattered. He tried to stay calm and rational and strong and all the things he needed to be, but he could not let this man fall. He could not lose Grantaire. He thought maybe he was close enough to pull him back if he needed to, but didn't know if he was strong enough to. He could only pray it didn't have to come to him finding out. "I think you're as scared as I am."

Grantaire turned around and looked up at Enjolras, meeting his tearful eyes. He had never seen a god break.

_Oh._

_Enjolras wasn't a god._

He was honest and genuine and did not want Grantaire to jump. He was a man who had done wrong and was capable of love and was capable of loving Grantaire. He was human.

"Scared?" Grantaire repeated, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. _Enjolras was not a god. Enjolras was not a god. Enjolras was not a god._

Enjolras nodded. "Yes, I think you're afraid that if you do fall, you will die, and you will never know how amazing your life can be. But I think you're scared of failing at any point in your life, so you want to fall. I don't know if I'm making sense, but I think you're scared. And I want to hold your hand. I want to love you. And you are not hard to love."

He reached out again. His palm was made of flesh and blood and it beckoned Grantaire to live. Grantaire did not say anything, his mind foggy and dizzy. He swore he could hear Enjolras's heartbeat for the first time. In the course of his entire life, he wanted nothing more than to be loved by Enjolras. Could Grantaire die satisfied with only the blond's attention?

And his friends, still on the ground below, loved Grantaire. It felt like a burst of light, escaping Enjolras and hitting Grantaire's chest. They loved him. Joly and the phone call, Jehan and the nights in his apartment, Bossuet and the fact that he had been freezing for an hour in near-silence. Even Courfeyrac and Combeferre loved him enough to try to save him from Enjolras.

Now Enjolras was saving him.

"Can you hear me? Are you there?" Enjolras asked, terrified that he was saying all of the wrong things.. "I'm talking to you. I want to be there for you. Please, say something. Come back inside with me. Please. I'm so scared, Grantaire."

Grantaire once said that he would never deny Enjolras anything he asked for. Before, he made posters for the club that he did not believe in, and at the beginning of August, Grantaire volunteered himself to go to a bar called Richefeu's and tell the artists there about Les Amis d'ABC. The truth was, he did not want to go nor did he plan on it, but he chose to criticize Enjolras's intentional exclusion of him.

"What's my assignment?" he had asked, just to be an ass.

"You don't have one, Grantaire," Enjolras said with narrowed eyes.

Grantaire feigned offense. "You said you expected Marius to be here. I'll go where he was supposed to. You said Richefeu's? I have friends who go there. People in my major."

Enjolras clicked his teeth. "Why would you do this for me? You believe in nothing."

This time, Grantaire's offense was real. It felt like a dagger in his heart. Somberly and soberly he said, "I believe in you."

"Grantaire, do you really want to do me a favor?" He brushed off the comment, assuming that Grantaire was kidding as he often did. No, Enjolras did not believe he was genuine in his flirting or compliments. He did not believe Grantaire saw him as a god.

"I would never deny anything you asked for. I'd let you beat me black and blue." And Grantaire meant it in the moment, never thinking that Enjolras would ask him to do something so difficult as to live. If Enjolras asked him to jump, he would be dead. But he didn't.

Enjolras flushed, assuming he was kidding, and dismissed the drunkard to the other bar.

Richefeu's turned out to be a mistake for all parties involved, as Grantaire thought he saw Montparnasse there. The latter man wasn't an artist, but had an affinity for screwing with them and screwing them. Grantaire told himself he was _crazy and just seeing things,_ but that night, Montparnasse pushed past Grantaire's apartment door and took Grantaire's liberty away (again).

 _"You don't have anything to say to me? After you fucking abandoned me?"_ The words spun in Grantaire's head. _Why couldn't Enjolras just ask him to jump?_

Grantaire froze where he stood on the roof, staring at the illusion of religion that broke before him.

"You might feel worthless and useless and I know that is in some part my fault," Enjolras said, between choking sobs. "So if you were so eager to believe me then, believe me now. You are capable of finding meaning in life. You are capable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of loving. You are so important. Please, Grantaire. Please believe me. Do not end your life on this fucking roof."

The negative voices had nothing to say, and the ground below stopped calling for him.

Flashbacks played in Grantaire's head, unsure what was that night and what was as ancient as the men he quoted. He felt Montparnasse against his throat, Jehan pressing a kiss against his head, Courfeyrac's hand on his back, Enjolras's arms holding him (?)like his life depended on it, Joly's hand in his at the hospital, Combeferre's eyes deciding if Grantaire was responsible enough to get himself home, and he heard Bossuet's pleas that had started the night off.

"Grantaire, come down." Enjolras begged, the words falling from his lips as if he was born to say them. "Will you permit it?"

Grantaire took his hand, a smile beginning to plant roots on his lips. 

Enjolras, in a moment of shock and ecstasy, pulled Grantaire towards him and hugged him, their two bodies pressing against each other. Enjolras was holding him away from the ledge, taking his hand and interlocking their fingers. He did not want to let go. 

They began their descent down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters left! we have them going back inside and then an epilogue!!! that said i do take fic requests in comments or on tumblr @bareunloveliness or hey fuck it check out my twitter @winterwindcries if you want! i mean i have a long google doc with ideas but i'm not super attached to them and i wanna know what people wanna read. obviously i work best with angst and i'm comfortable writing dark shit but like. don't b afraid 2 leave a prompt if you want one, especially as this fic comes to an end!
> 
> (i also. could write more in this verse. bc i have a physical timeline of every event)
> 
> also shoutout to bread for the black and blue line


	15. clothe yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is back in the Cafe Musain and he's alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all wanted COMFORT?

**Throw yourself into the unknown**

**With pace and a fury defiant**

**Clothe yourself in beauty untold**

**And see life as a means to a triumph**

The men outside, who had been joined by the oblivious Bahorel and Feuilly, dashed inside when they saw Enjolras half-carry Grantaire down the stairs. Bossuet helped Joly inside, not wanting his boyfriend to slip on the ice in his excited haze, though both of them struggled to see through their tears of gratitude.

"Fuck, Bossuet," Joly said with laboured breaths as the pair crossed the threshold back into the Cafe Musain, "he's alive."

"Yeah. He is." Bossuet smiled as he watched Enjolras and Grantaire make their way back into the bar, all of the men retreating to the back room. Enjolras pulled a chair up next to Grantaire, their hands still interlocked, as Courfeyrac and Combeferre were already ordering water and coffee for Grantaire, along with something to eat.

There was an air of celebration, naturally, but an unspoken tension. Grantaire was up there for an hour. It was a narrow victory. But the question that hung on everyone's lips was daunting; what was to say it wouldn't happen again?

Enjolras held him like a lifeline, more than just his hands at times wrapping his limber arms around Grantaire's shoulders. Sometimes Grantaire's head fell back against Enjolras's chest like it did on the roof, only this time, the brunet tried not to cry. He wondered how the rest of the night would fall.  _ Enjolras would hold him and make sure he was warm. Maybe Enjolras would walk him home. Maybe Enjolras would stay the night. Grantaire hadn't spent the night with anyone without having to earn it (with the exception of Jehan) in years and he wanted it. God, he wanted it so badly. _

_ But what would happen the next day? The day after? _

_ Enjolras would walk on eggshells during meetings, which would probably prove to be worse than the yelling. Hate and bitterness were at least passionate; he'd rather have them than pity. All of his friends would talk down to him, probably try to take his alcohol.  _

He couldn't say for sure if life was going to get better.

"What are you thinking about?" Enjolras asked softly, when the attention had been turned towards Courfeyrac, who was simply being himself. The meetings would have ended by now, and members would have started heading home, had it been a normal occasion.   
Grantaire took a sip of his water. "Tomorrow. What happens next?"

Enjolras ran a hand through his hair, slick with sweat and melted snow, and Grantaire remembered that there was much more to talk about than just his own crumbling mental health. There was the whole 'feelings' thing they had to dive into, which wouldn't be fun for anyone involved. "I don't know, ‘Aire. I'm just happy that there is a tomorrow."

"I'm still—" Grantaire struggled to find the courage to speak. "Do you remember Richefeu's?"  
Enjolras nodded. "You told me you believed in me. You never said that before."

"I went and I tried to talk to them," Grantaire continued. "I swear to you, I tried. But I just—I thought I saw him the whole time, you know? Lurking, waiting, and grinning like a wolf. And I really thought I was crazy or drunk or both, but when I got back to my place, he followed me home and—"

Grantaire began to cry again, shame cutting him like a knife, as he rested his forehead on Enjolras's shoulder.

"It's alright. You don't have to tell me."

"Enjolras, he hasn't left," Grantaire mumbled. "He always comes back and does what he—what he pleases. I can't go back home."

"Come home with me," Enjolras said quickly without hesitation. "Stay as long as you need. We're going to keep you safe, whatever it takes. Combeferre can find you a therapist, if that's something you'd be interested in. I don't want you to just stay alive, I want you to love being alive."

Grantaire began to take note of moments where he loved being alive. 

When he started, there weren't many. The first was that night, when they did eventually retire to Enjolras's apartment. It was clean and arguably expensive, with a working buzzer system and a much better sense of security than Grantaire's place. The blond lived alone, but he did confess that his parents paid for his shelter.

"It allows me to spend more time and money on things that matter, if I let them pay for this," he rationalized to Grantaire. "Instead of saving up for rent, I can donate to—"

"Apollo, you're allowed to let rich motherfuckers pay for your apartment," Grantaire laughed, a sight that was so lovely that Enjolras did not even correct the name he chose to use. 

Grantaire took a shower while Enjolras pulled out fresh clothes for him that he thought the other would be comfortable in. The blond sat at the edge of his bed, a strange sense of panic setting in. _ What if he was not good enough for Grantaire? _

He was snapped out of his own thoughts when the brunet entered, towel wrapped around his waist. "I set out some clothes for you," Enjolras said, just barely looking up. It wasn't the right time for him to try to figure out his own feelings for Grantaire; it was too messy and too painful. 

Grantaire noticed this, and silently took the clothes back to the bathroom to change.

The moment where Grantaire loved being alive was a few minutes later, when the last light had been turned off and the pair of them lay in Enjolras's bed. There was no way that Enjolras would have forced him to sleep on the couch, nor trusted him to be so close to a kitchen with alcohol in it. 

Enjolras slept on his back, staring up at the ceiling, as he did on so many sleepless nights. At his side, Grantaire was half-asleep, curled up to him, his head resting in the now-familiar place on Enjolras's chest. Grantaire noted the way Enjolras's heart beat.

Yes, he was happy to be alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter getting posted tomorrow and i'm already starting the editing process of my next fic. both this one and the next on were written during nanowrimo so. lots of editing needed but the other one's gonna be like. 30k. so.


	16. is to love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last oneeeee. takes place six months after the events of the first fifteen chapters.

**Today of all days**

**See how the most dangerous thing is to love**

**How you will heal and you'll rise above**

**Crowned by an overture bold and beyond**

**Ah, it's more courageous to overcome**

Grantaire wrapped his lips around the edge of his bottle, which may have been poetic if he wasn't thinking about how he tried to kill himself.

Enjolras was very fond of dates; that is, times when things happened. He wished on 11:11, stayed up until midnight on his birthday, and even texted his parents on their anniversary (though they likely did not deserve such a courtesy). He liked the way time passed and you could see what changed between two points. It was about sentiment, sometimes, but at other times, it was about progress. And six months after Grantaire decided not to jump off of the roof of the Cafe Musain, it was both.

It was a shockingly warm evening in May, when Enjolras mentioned it, driving them both towards the bar. "Are you going to be okay at the meeting tonight?"  
Grantaire, who did not have the same affinity for dates and times, raised an eyebrow as he turned down the radio. It was some alternative shit from the early 2000s, which Grantaire usually did like to listen to, but he much preferred hearing Enjolras's voice. "Uh, is there a reason I wouldn't be?"

Enjolras almost regretted saying anything, but now he had to confess. "It's been six months since…"

"Since?" It took a moment for the brunet to register. "Oh. Since that."

"It's probably not a big deal, I just—"

"No, I get it. It kind of is a big deal," Grantaire said, thinking about it. "I'm gonna be okay."

Enjolras pulled into a parking spot, and gathered his stuff. He leaned over and gave Grantaire a quick kiss on the cheek before getting out of the car. Grantaire still had to resist the urge to physically swoon as he followed suit. They were the first ones to arrive, as per usual, as Enjolras started setting up in the backroom and Grantaire ordered a beer. He'd cut back considerably with only a few beers every once in a while, as opposed to drinking half a pint of vodka every night. He hadn't gone to any AA meetings, but he had spent a month in rehab for the harder drugs. It was a month away from Enjolras.

It was a month for Enjolras to realize how much Grantaire meant to him. Sure, the blond already had gone a month without seeing Grantaire at meetings, but after everything that happened on the roof, it was torture. He wanted to talk to Grantaire, to see him, to hold him again. And when he did, Enjolras kissed him.

They were sitting on his couch, catching each other up on everything they had missed. Grantaire decided not to drink that first night out of rehab, and Enjolras supported him in this endeavor by buying a bottle of sparkling cider.

"So Jehan came out to us. They're nonbinary." Enjolras said, pouring two glasses.

"Oh, cool," Grantaire felt slightly guilty for having missed that. It was probably an outpouring of love and support amongst Les Amis, and he had missed it. "They/them?"

"They/xem. We've started a campaign to require professors and students to share pronouns in class and in their email signatures." Enjolras explained. "To normalize it."

Grantaire took a long sip and didn't respond.

"What are you thinking about?" Enjolras asked, concerned.  
"Nothing— I don't want to start a fight."

"Tell me?" Enjolras almost pouted. Grantaire sighed.

"It's one thing to normalize pronouns, but another to require them is to force professors and students alike to come out or to lie about their identity for their own safety," the brunet pointed out. "And with Courfeyrac, we know the school doesn't give a shit about the safety of its trans students. And with an openly nonbinary member of Les Amis, you have to address the no-women policy. We're not a fraternity. You know that's something that's been bothering Jehan for a while, so you have to repeal it."

And when he stopped talking, a very rare occurrence for Grantaire, Enjolras leaned over and held Grantaire's face in his hands for a moment, staring at him with the utmost affection before pressing a kiss against his lips. Grantaire didn't hesitate to kiss back, closing his eyes, and pressing his hands against Enjolras's chest.

"What was that for?" Grantaire said after they pulled away, breathing heavily. He had been waiting for that for years.

Enjolras cracked a smile. "I've missed you."

It was soon decided that Grantaire would move in with Enjolras. It might have seemed sudden, but it was simply the best option to keep Montparnasse off his tail. Enjolras had been working with Lamarque, his boss from a previous internship at a law firm, to secure a restraining order. It wasn't an easy task, with many sleepless nights in Combeferre and Courfeyrac's apartment (Courfeyrac made some of the best 2 A.M. coffee—the magic of a french press) pouring over papers and reports. It was worth it, for the comfort of knowing his boyfriend could sleep at night.

The rest of Les Amis didn't get the memo that the meeting that night was six months after Grantaire's attempt, but that was because Enjolras didn't send the memo. It was something for him and Grantaire to be quietly aware of.

The romantic relationship between the believer and the cynic did not prevent familiar arguments from breaking out. The pair still adored fighting and tearing each other to shreds, but with more affection and pet-names.

"Boycotting fucking  _ Starbucks _ ? That's your grand idea for revolution?" Grantaire barked a laugh. "Babe, come on, you're so much better than this. If you boycotted every company that had a single racist employee, you'd never be able to buy anything."

"Sure, but that doesn't stop us from boycotting _ Chick-Fil-A _ or the  _ Salvation Army _ ," Enjolras argued. "We know that it doesn't do much, but it's still our money that we control."

"Okay, so we're going to pretend like  _ Starbucks _ doesn't hire disproportionately large numbers of BIPOC and LGBT baristas? And in a college town? Babe, the people who work there are trying to pay for their education." Grantaire pressed the issue. "They also cover transitioning in their medical insurance. Name another company that does that."

Enjolras fell silent, eyes narrowing. "Combeferre, what's the next point of business?"

Grantaire, taking a long sip of his beer, could not imagine Enjolras any more attractive than when he was angry, lip curling as he realized he was wrong. Men could be wrong. It was moments like that, when he knew that Enjolras was his equal and that Enjolras loved him, that he was happy to be alive.

If the most dangerous thing was to love, then Grantaire had no interest in being safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. thank you so much for this wild adventure. i haven't cared about writing in years and y'all really helped change that. i've thanked them a million times, but thank you to the 'hoes for enjolras' discord server, especially malin and emma who i think edited every chapter? 
> 
> emma is my lovely girlfriend who makes sure i'm okay when i write angst. i appreciate her so much y'all.
> 
> i start school back up in a few weeks, so i'm hoping to get out one more big fic before then, which is currently in the editing process. will be lots of angst, so if you liked this one and the style it was written in, i recommend subscribing so you'll get the notif when i publish it! 
> 
> thank you so much. seriously. thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave comments if you are so inspired! even though this fic is completed, i'll read all of them and probably cry.


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